


lights, camera, acción

by piagnucolare



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Filming, Gangbang, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mind Break, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Restraints, Sloppy Seconds, but the true heart and soul of this fic is beckpeter, even if they only bone for like. one minute, grammarly beta'd this 4 me, peter gets tricked into doing an Adult film basically, there are some random unnamed people in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: “And what do you know about him?”Peter pauses. Technically, they’ve been talking for a few weeks now, but he still doesn’t know anything substantial. “His name is Quentin Beck,” he says, after a few seconds of silence. “And he’s an aspiring director.”(In which Peter thinks he wants to be an actor, maybe, and Mr. Beck wants to make him famous, maybe. Just not in the way Peter expected.)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Undisclosed, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 80





	lights, camera, acción

**Author's Note:**

> oughhhhh director quentin beck...... and yes i’m back on my noncon nonsense
> 
> this was requested by someone a long time ago and i had the draft sitting around so i thought i’d post it
> 
> warnings for non-con, humiliation, manipulation, forced exhibitionism, and a bunch of peter Mistreatment
> 
> i feel like this one is my darkest fic yet. you are genuinely warned.
> 
> anyway here it is

“Wait, let me get this straight— you’re looking for acting roles on _Craigslist_?”

Peter stops his forkful of salad midway to his mouth, blinking at MJ from across the table. She’s pointing her own fork in his direction, equal parts accusatory and intimidating. It’s not the reaction he expected, so he balks for a beat, confused. He’d hoped she’d be a little more excited or something, considering he’d just gotten his first audition for a _movie_ movie, not a community theatre gig or a student film. It seems like a cause for celebration, not a lecture.

Peter shrugs, setting down his fork. “Actually, I _found_ an acting role on Craigslist. I’m meeting with the director tomorrow and everything.” He pauses. “Is there something wrong with Craigslist?”

“ _Peter_. You don’t know if this is legit. The director could be a freaky old perv who wants to film your feet.”

He chokes on his sip of water, spitting a few drops onto the table. “Gross, MJ, Jesus,” he coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s why I’m meeting him before anything serious happens. We’re going out for coffee.”

It seemed like a reasonable plan when Mr. Beck suggested it. MJ doesn’t seem convinced, though, narrowing her dark eyes at him. He should be touched that she’s worried, but for the most part, it seems like she’s just overreacting. “Did you tell him your name? Does he know what you look like?”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re being way too paranoid. Not everything is an unsolved murder waiting to happen, you know.” He stabs at a cherry tomato. “And yeah, he knows my name and what I look like— I sent him my _audition tape_.”

“And what do you know about him?”

Peter pauses. Technically, they’ve been talking for a few weeks now, but he still doesn’t know anything substantial. “His name is Quentin Beck,” he says, after a few seconds of silence. “And he’s an aspiring director.” 

He’s also really funny and sweet, based on the handful of text conversations they’ve had, but MJ probably isn’t looking for those kinds of details. In fact, knowing that they’ve been semi-frequently texting would probably add to her concern. Which, again, is totally unfounded. Mr. Beck seems like an amazing guy.

MJ picks up her phone, typing something out before frowning. “I searched Quentin Beck and nothing came up.”

“He’s an _aspiring_ director,” Peter repeats. “Besides, isn’t that a good thing? No criminal records.”

She holds up her finger, pointing at him accusingly. “You don’t know that.”

It’s obvious that she's worried, even if it just comes off as suspicion and annoyance. “Look, MJ,” he says, offering a placating smile. “I’ll be careful, I promise. If things are weird, I’ll leave and never look back. I just don’t wanna pass up an opportunity like this. It could be my big break.”

She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she’s getting there, obvious by her slowly softening expression. “Fine.” Peter cheers internally— it’s all in the puppy eyes. And MJ says that they don’t work on her. “And you’ll never use Craigslist again?”

He grins. “And I’ll never use Craigslist again.”

—

Quentin Beck, in Peter’s imagination, looked a lot more like Quentin Tarantino, and a lot less like the leading man in a rom-com. He didn’t expect him to be so good-looking, so _handsome_ , especially not after MJ planted the old pervert seed of doubt in the back of his mind. But there he is, sitting in the back corner of this cute little coffee shop, stunningly handsome face and all.

He makes his way over to his table, everything moving in slow motion. He’s half-expecting a music cue, or an orchestra swell. Mr. Beck is just so, _so_ offensively handsome. Now that Peter’s a little closer, he can see the soft blue of his eyes, the long lashes that frame them. It’s too soon to say, but maybe Peter is a little bit in love. If only the script were a rom-com— Mr. Beck would be the perfect love interest.

“Mr. Beck?” he tries, voice wavering as he waits at the edge of the table. Part of him expects the man to look at him blankly, before confirming that this has all been a case of mistaken identity.

He believes that until the man looks up from his phone and offers him a genuine, blindingly bright smile. “Oh my god, you must be Peter,” he says, the happiness evident in his voice. It’s nice and deep, a contrast to Peter’s own. “Have a seat.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, his brain temporarily reduced to mush in the presence of such a stupidly hot guy. _Come on, Parker, use your words_.

Luckily, Mr. Beck starts speaking before Peter embarrasses himself. “It’s so great to finally meet you, I mean, _wow_ ,” he says with a wink, practically oozing charisma. It’s kinda impressive. Given how handsome and charming he is, it’s a little surprising that Mr. Beck’s the director and not the talent. “You’re even cuter in person, Pete.”

If his brain wasn’t malfunctioning before, it definitely is now. _Cuter in person_. Peter’s going to die. Rarely, if ever, does he get compliments from his peers, let alone compliments from someone so gorgeous. Jesus, he has to stop thinking about how handsome Mr. Beck is before he accidentally says something out loud and embarrasses himself.

There’s no doubt that Mr. Beck can see the flush on his cheeks. It’s hard for him to _not_ be flustered— who starts a conversation by saying ‘you’re cuter in person’? It’s completely ridiculous, unless you’re someone like Quentin Beck.

Peter takes a breath, trying to stop his heart from beating out of his chest. “Well, sir,” he starts, voice surprisingly steady, all things considered. “It was a pretty bad headshot. I couldn’t afford to get them done professionally, so I had to take them with my aunt’s camera— it’s like, really old— and the quality isn’t great. Plus I’m not really photogenic, so there’s that, too. I mean, you should see my yearbook photo.” 

He knows he’s rambling, but he can’t seem to stop. If he doesn’t fill the silence, then he’ll have to listen to his thoughts, which are headed into decidedly unprofessional territory. Kissing your director territory. Luckily, Mr. Beck doesn’t seem bothered, just listens attentively, with a soft smile on his lips. His really, really nice lips.

“So, you’re saying you don’t look good on camera?” he asks, an amused glint in his eye. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if I’ve got the part,” Peter quips, momentarily regaining his ability to socialize. It lightens the mood, makes things a little more casual, given the professional circumstances. For a moment, it’s almost like they’re flirting— like they’re on a _date_. 

He can dream.

Mr. Beck chuckles into his coffee cup. “Eager, huh?” He unfolds his napkin, dabbing at an invisible stain along the corner of his mouth— Peter just watches, transfixed. “Okay then, let’s talk shop.”

“Talk shop,” he echoes. There’s a beauty mark by the corner of Mr. Beck’s mouth, partially obscured by his thick beard. Peter imagines a fresh-faced, clean-shaven Beck, looking even more like a movie star with his mole. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m going to be brutal, Peter. Ridiculously brutal. Is that okay?”

_Brutal_. The way Mr. Beck says it— eyes intense, licking his lips— makes it seem much more appealing than it should be. Peter nods his head, slowly leaning closer. “Brutal is fine. I like brutal.”

He might be imagining things, but he swears that there’s a dark glint in Mr. Beck’s eyes when he says that. Cold. Sinister, even. A strange anomaly in his warm disposition. But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone, replaced again with those shining blue eyes.

“I saw your audition tape,” he starts, schooling his expression into something more serious. Peter feels his palms start to sweat where they lie in his lap. He’d rub them on his jeans if it wouldn’t make it so obvious that he’s nervous. The audition tape was just a monologue from one of his favorite retro movies, his go-to for every audition so far, but now he’s not sure it was the right move. And he was _so_ confident when he’d sent it.

Mr. Beck offers him a sudden, beaming grin. “I _loved_ it. I think you’re absolutely perfect for the lead role.”

“The lead role?” Peter repeats, confused. He’d skimmed through the script, only focusing on the side character that he was auditioning for. The closest thing the plot had to comic relief, someone more lighthearted. The lead role, from what he’d gleaned, was a lot heavier. A lot more... mature.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Beck says, nodding. “I know you auditioned for a smaller part, but I can’t let you sell yourself short.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Beck, sir,” he starts, rubbing his already sweaty palms on his thighs. Why is he so _nervous_? “This is my first time being in anything like this... I guess I just thought I’d be better off on the sidelines.”

Peter would be better off on the sidelines, _and_ fully clothed. The main character ends up in some pretty compromising situations if he remembers correctly. It’s not exactly something he’s comfortable with, and he’s pretty sure it’d be illegal or something. He’s still in _high school_. Mr. Beck knows that.

“You need to give yourself more credit, Peter. I wouldn’t want you in my movie if I didn’t think you could bring something to the table.” Mr. Beck narrows his eyes, despite the light smile on his lips. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Peter laughs nervously, lowering his gaze to the coffee-ringed table, fingers idly tracing over the stains. “I’m not good at saying no, anyways.” He doesn’t want to _say_ no, anyways. Not to Mr. Beck. He doubts there’s a single outcome where he denies this man what he wants.

He’s charismatic, sure. Downright charming. But there’s something else about him that commands the room, demands submission. Like if his smile and good looks aren’t enough, he might just resort to brute force. _Brutal_ rings through Peter’s head again.

“A people pleaser, huh?” Mr. Beck hums appreciatively, like he’s savoring a particularly juicy bit of information. Peter feels a chill run down his spine, his hair standing on end like he’s just walked right into danger. Like he’s signed himself over to a terrible monster— a terribly charming monster, maybe. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, even if it sounds cliché.

Mr. Beck flashes him a particularly toothy grin, his teeth white and perfect. Peter absentmindedly notes how sharp his canines are, and with his previous train of thought, he can’t help but think that Mr. Beck looks predatory. “I think we’re gonna get along just fine, Pete.”

—

The set is, unsurprisingly, nowhere near the city, let alone Queens. 

According to the script, the story takes place somewhere in the Midwest, a suburban drama about a poor prostitute and his rich lover— which can’t exactly have skyscrapers as its backdrop. Being dragged out to the middle of nowhere makes sense in the context of the movie, even if he’d rather stay close to home. And not to mention it’s a low-budget project, so Mr. Beck says he could only afford filming rights in a little town a few hours upstate. Which is fine— Peter loves little towns, and he knows that the project isn’t exactly backed by a big-name studio. It’s not a problem, especially if it makes Mr. Beck’s life easier. 

What _is_ a problem, though, is the fact that Peter can’t drive. He doesn’t even have his permit yet. Why would he need it, if he lives in the city? He takes the subway to school, to his part-time job, everywhere— if the subway doesn’t go where he needs it to, he can just take a bus instead. 

It’s just that, no bus can take him upstate to where he needs to be, and May can’t drive him on such short notice— not that she even knows about his little venture into acting. His complete lack of transportation means that he has to ask Mr. Beck for a ride, stomach tied in knots as he sends the message. 

Even though Mr. Beck gives an enthusiastic yes, it does nothing to soothe the unrest in Peter’s stomach. They’ll be alone, together, in a tiny space, for four hours. It’s not like anything will actually happen, but just the idea that something _could_ happen has Peter spending the whole morning pacing back and forth in his room, agonizing over what to wear.

He’s more than halfway through his closet, standing only in an old tee and his boxers, when Mr. Beck texts that he’s on his way. Manhattan and Queens are far enough from each other that he’s got time to get the rest of his stuff together, but he still panics. He tries on a ridiculous number of outfits in record time, while trying to ignore the fact that it all makes him feel very high school-ish. Like he’s getting ready for the first date with a crush. Immature things that real, mature men like Quentin Beck probably never even think about. Whoever’s in charge of wardrobe is going to have him changing into a costume anyway, so why does it matter?

He pushes those thoughts out of his head as he finishes getting dressed, and manages to keep himself under control until he finally climbs into the passenger seat of Mr. Beck’s fancy car. It’s a _really_ fancy car, Peter notes as he shifts around on the leather seat. He doesn’t have much experience with fancy things, but he recognizes the make anyway, knows it’s expensive. 

Mr. Beck is equally fancy, donning a suit jacket of all things, along with a neatly pressed turtleneck. He shoots a glance over at Peter, offering a smile. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Peter jokes, lamely. Even with all the time and effort he put into getting dressed, he still feels out of place. Like he’s hitchhiking in a rich stranger’s car, not getting a ride from a friend.

The ride upstate is mostly silent for the first few hours, with a smattering of polite small talk on Mr. Beck’s end, and an equally polite set of responses from Peter. The music coming through the speakers helps fill any unwieldy gaps in their conversation, and Peter finds himself humming under his breath as he stares out the window, the highway a blur of gray. He’s never been this far upstate— the usual hustle and bustle of the city strangely absent. Like the two of them are really, truly alone. _In the middle of nowhere_.

“Oh, by the way, Pete,” Mr. Beck starts, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I’ve got some paperwork that you’ll need to look through before we start shooting. Nothing major, just some technical things, legal things— I’m sure you know the drill.”

This is the part where Peter should say _yeah, sure_ , and leave things be— fake it ‘til he makes it. Instead, he chooses to say something stupid. He turns toward Mr. Beck, as much as his seatbelt allows. “Mr. Beck, I gotta be honest. I’ve never actually been in a movie before. Or acted in anything, I guess. Only auditions.”

He expects some sort of betrayed look to cross Mr. Beck’s face, at least a hint of annoyance, but he remains focused on the road. “That’s fine. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Peter huffs, feeling frustrated. “I’ve never been in a movie because they always say I’m too young, even if I’m auditioning to play a teenager. It’s like, I’m in _high school_ , y’know, I’m the best choice to play a teenager.”

“Sure,” Mr. Beck agrees, “but why are you telling me this? I think you’re perfect for the lead role, high schooler or not.”

“I just feel like I’m not mature enough for it.” Peter sighs, slouching in his seat. “And all this legal stuff, it’s so complicated. And I’m sure that me being naked in some scenes will cause even more trouble. I just don’t want to make any problems for you.”

Mr. Beck turns towards him for a moment, before placing a warm, broad hand on Peter’s thigh. “You’re worth the complications, the trouble, the problems— all of it. I really, _really_ want you in my movie. You’re just an ingénue now, but I have a feeling I could make you into a star.”

“Make me into a star?” Peter repeats, slightly surprised. Did he hear him right? “You mean you’d want to work with me again?”

“Well, let’s see how this goes first, hm?” Mr. Beck chuckles, his hand squeezing Peter’s thigh before he pulls it away. “But I have a feeling you’re going to be brilliant— the audience is going to eat you up.”

Peter’s head fills with thoughts of red carpets, of flashing paparazzi cameras, and a sea of faces screaming his name. Imagines how nice it would be, to have people praising his work. It’s so enticing that he almost doesn’t care about being nude— every actor has to start somewhere, anyway. And after all, it’s not uncommon for actors to show a little skin, especially in more artistic films.

But that’s not his only concern. “What about the mature scenes? The sex scenes, I mean. I’m not exactly a seasoned professional.”

Mr. Beck huffs, audibly tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “We’ll play it by ear. Your costars are all very patient people.”

“But— I dunno— I just meant that it’d be my first time, y’know? So not only would I not be good, but I’d also be doing things with a complete stranger.”

“Oh, Peter,” Mr. Beck starts, in a tone that’s both soothing and patronizing. “It doesn’t count if it’s _acting_. Everybody knows that. Besides, nothing serious is going to happen— just a little bump and grind. This isn’t an adult film, after all.” 

It’s not a very convincing argument, especially not when Mr. Beck sounds so patronizing. Peter must still seem nervous, because Mr. Beck places his hand on his thigh again, rubbing circles into the denim with his thumb. “If it makes you feel better, maybe I could fill in for your scene partner for some of the heavier stuff. We’ve got a similar build.” He pauses, hand going still. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

That’s the worst idea Peter’s ever heard. If Mr. Beck has his hands all over him— if Mr. Beck pretends to be _inside him_ — it’s going to be very difficult for Peter to pretend that they’re just coworkers. He’s already struggling as is. “Oh, no, I don’t wanna make things more difficult for you. I mean, you already have to direct the scene.”

“I could stand to be a little more hands-on,” Mr. Beck jokes. “It’s no trouble at all, kid.”

“We’ll see, I guess,” Peter says with a hesitant smile that he’s sure looks fake. Mr. Beck doesn’t point it out, though. Peter’s not sure whether he wanted him to or not.

—

Mr. Beck unlocks the door to the house with little fanfare, even though Peter’s completely awestruck by how… extravagant, it is. Maybe it’s because he lives in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in Queens, or maybe it’s because he’s just never seen anything so big and fancy. Like something out of an interior decorating magazine. In a different context, he might’ve been intimidated.

“We’ll be filming most of our scenes inside,” Mr. Beck explains as he sets down his equipment on the floor. 

It’s nice, seeing him be so involved in the heavy-lifting— a sure sign that his film will be a labor of love instead of just some soulless blockbuster. The equipment seems more on the amateur side, reminds him of the camera his parents had when he was a toddler, VHS tape and all. Peter smiles to himself, but Mr. Beck smiles back when he looks up from the gear. His heart flutters against his ribcage for some godforsaken reason, and he does his best to quash the feeling.

Peter follows him into the equally big dining room, circling the table. It’s already been cleared, which is good, since one of the scenes will need it. One of the more _mature_ scenes. “Where is everyone?” he asks, leaning his weight onto the wood. It seems sturdy enough— the last thing he wants is for it to break under his weight. 

“They’ll be here soon,” Mr. Beck says breezily. “Eager, aren’t we?”

“I guess.” Peter shrugs. “Just wanted to meet the guy who’s going to be playing my handsome, rich boyfriend. Y’know, before we have to do stuff. Bump and grind.”

Mr. Beck rounds the table, crowding in close in an instant. “Are you worried about that still? About him?”

Peter leans back, surprised. “Not worried, just... nervous. I mean, I don’t actually know him. What if our on-screen chemistry sucks?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, neither of them saying anything. Peter drops the eye contact and focuses instead on the beauty mark by Mr. Beck’s mouth. There’s another one along the jut of his cheekbone.

“Is that all you’re worried about?” Mr. Beck probes, breaking the silence. “You can tell me the truth, Peter.”

It’s not the truth. At least, not the whole truth. “I— I don’t know,” he says, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t know how to voice any of his concerns without sounding ungrateful, without sounding like a pathetic virgin who isn’t actually willing to give his all for the art of film. 

“Is it about the sex?” Mr. Beck asks immediately, like it was obvious all along. “He’ll put his fingers inside you, but it won’t be real, you know.”

Since when is he actually going to be touched? So far, it seemed like they were only going to be pretending. Peter blanches. Maybe he heard him wrong. “What?”

Mr. Beck rolls his eyes, like he’s explaining something to a stupid kid. Maybe Peter is a stupid kid. At least, he feels like one, under Mr. Beck’s judging gaze. “He’s not going to fuck you,” he says, blunt and sharp— contradictory just like him. Peter would flush from the crass phrasing if he weren’t so terrified. Mr. Beck’s voice rings in his head— _ridiculously brutal_. “He’s not going to stick his cock in you. Just his fingers. That’s practically nothing.”

It’s not ‘nothing’ to Peter. He flinches, but keeps talking despite his instinct to shut up. “I didn’t know we were actually going to be doing things. Does he really have to— does it have to be so realistic? Couldn’t we just, like, pretend? Act?”

“Realism in sex scenes adds a layer of intrigue, makes the viewer uncomfortable— which is invaluable in a world where the media is constantly saturated with violence. Haven’t you ever seen _The Brown Bunny_?” Peter must look lost, because Mr. Beck stops, shakes his head like he’s hopeless. “Besides, it’s _just_ his fingers.”

“Just his fingers,” Peter repeats weakly, because that’s not exactly reassuring, is it? “I’ve never had— I’ve never done that before.”

“Never done what before?” Mr. Beck asks, before something clicks and his eyes light up. “Oh, you’re a _virgin_ virgin? You’re joking.”

“Um, I’m not? Sir?”

Mr. Beck looks thoughtful for a moment, maybe pleased. “Well, we can work around it. You’re lucky, Peter. Inexperience is a drawback in most directors’ eyes, but not in mine.” 

And just like that, he’s the caring man from the coffee shop again, with kind eyes and a soft voice. Peter doesn’t have any time to be grateful, though, because Mr. Beck’s next suggestion is much worse than the whole stranger thing.

“I said I’d be his body double if you have any doubts, and it seems you’ve got a lot, so I guess I’ll replace him.”

Yeah, no, that’s the opposite of helpful. Maybe an even less appealing offer than it was earlier, when they weren’t actually on the set. “No, no, you don’t have to do that, sir— I can manage just fine.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he hums, tilting his head. “Let me do it, Peter. We have great chemistry, don’t we? We’re friends. And you trust me, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, barely louder than a whisper, forcing the word out despite his shaky voice. His stomach is tied up in knots, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. “I trust you. Of course, I trust you.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Mr. Beck folds his arms over his chest. The thought of making him angry again makes Peter’s blood run cold. “The last thing we need is you getting stage fright once the cameras start rolling.”

“No, you’re right.” He offers a shaky smile. “There’s no problem. You can touch— you can be a double. For this scene.”

That seems to be a good enough answer, because Mr. Beck grins, appeased. “That’s a good boy. I’m sure we’ll be great together, just wait.”

Peter trembles slightly, anxious as ever, but hopefully Mr. Beck mistakes it for a shiver, something more along the lines of pleasure than fear. He doesn’t want to make things any more difficult than they already are— than he’s already made them— and he knows he’ll freeze up the moment a stranger touches him. If Mr. Beck really wants to, he can be the one to lay Peter down on the table, finger him open for the cameras, for the audience to see. He knows better, after all.

Yeah. Peter would probably flinch and squirm a lot if it were a stranger’s hands on him, but he might be able to stay still if Mr. Beck tells him to. Still, the fear of messing up could get to him too— that, and the sheer embarrassment of it all. The way he’s going to be laid out for him, on display for everyone, _god_. He might end up crying, and that would definitely ruin the movie all on its own.

For some reason, though, he doesn’t think Mr. Beck would agree.

—

According to Mr. Beck, the rest of the crew is waiting outside to keep Peter’s anxiety as low as possible. Which is sweet, maybe. It doesn’t matter, though, because as soon as he realizes what they’re shooting first, his heartbeat skyrockets.

Peter shivers when his thighs press against the surface of the wooden table, cold despite how hot his face feels. “Are we really starting with _this_ scene?” he asks, disbelief coloring his voice even though he tries to keep it level. 

“Sure. Get the hard part over with, and then it’ll be smooth sailing.”

Peter hesitates. “Like ripping off a bandaid? Quick and painless?”

Mr. Beck gives him a funny look. “Not exactly. It’ll make more sense later. You’ll see.”

He doubts that it’ll make more sense later. It definitely doesn’t make any sense to him now— none of this does, really. But then again, he’s not the director, and he trusts Mr. Beck’s judgment, sort of. If he thinks they should start with the heavy stuff, then they’ll start with the heavy stuff. Might as well get it over with.

Mr. Beck looks up from his spot by the other end of the table, where he’s fidgeting with a scrap of dark fabric. _A blindfold_ , Peter’s brain supplies. He still asks anyway, on the off-chance that he’s wrong.

Mr. Beck’s dark eyebrows draw together in something similar to disappointment. “No shit, it’s a blindfold.” He pauses, sighing. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Peter feels his stomach tie itself in knots. “It’s just that, um. The script didn’t say anything about blindfolds—”

“Scripts are always changing, Peter. They’re not stagnant.”

“Okay, yeah,” Peter concedes, “but you didn’t tell me that it changed, and I feel like I should know.” 

Mr. Beck seems unmoved. Maybe unimpressed, though Peter doesn’t know why he needs to impress him, anyway. 

“The blindfold,” he tries, continuing with what little dignity he has left. “That makes things kinda different, don’t you think? Not seeing things makes me feel weird. Vulnerable.”

“Well, if you don’t feel comfortable doing this scene first, Peter, you should have told me sooner. The crew is already outside.” 

That’s not _fair_. He’d tried to tell him, multiple times, that he wasn’t comfortable doing the scene at all— on the car ride up, and when they were setting up the equipment for the shoot, and even when he was taking off his clothes in the next room over a few minutes ago. And every time, Mr. Beck dismissed it as nerves, first-time anxiety, and stuff like that. Peter believed him— or at least, he did, until now.

Now, he’s almost one-hundred percent sure that he’s just terrified of being naked on camera, of strangers seeing him in such an intimate light— of having someone take that _first_ from him when he doesn’t know if he’s ready, even if that someone is Mr. Beck. Handsome, charming, _brutal_ Mr. Beck.

Whatever last-ditch excuse he’s coming up with dies in his throat as Mr. Beck comes up to him with the blindfold. “Put it on,” he commands, in that low voice that leaves no room for arguing. “The audience would like it. And _I’d_ like it even more.”

Peter reaches a hand out, but hesitates. There’s no way he can act while being blindfolded _and_ felt up by Mr. Beck’s hands. The combination of anticipation, nerves, and humiliation will fry his brain to a crisp, no doubt about it.

He must hesitate for too long, because Mr. Beck sighs in frustration, tossing the blindfold against Peter’s chest. He turns to the kitchen counter, muttering under his breath in a voice too soft for Peter to hear, before turning around again. And oh god, he looks absolutely _pissed_. “Are you trying to ruin my project, Peter? I’m genuinely asking. Because here I am, trying to challenge you— trying to make you into a fucking _star_ — and for some reason, you keep throwing it all back in my face.”

Peter lurches off the edge of the table without thinking, clutching the blindfold in one hand. “No, no, Mr. Beck, I would— I’d never try to ruin your movie, sir,” he stammers out, eyes wide. He’s doing his best to not panic, but it’s difficult, considering he definitely just offended the man who’s trying to give him his big break. The man who drove him out to the middle of nowhere, and is his only way home. “I’m sorry, I’ll put on the blindfold. I was just nervous again. I should— I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“No, no, Peter, _I’m_ sorry.” Mr. Beck’s expression shifts into something more understanding, almost pitying, like Peter’s a crying child. It’s such an unexpected change in demeanor that he feels winded, stunned by another complete one-eighty. “I’m nervous too, you know— this is my directorial debut, after all. I just want everything to go according to plan, and I need you here in order for that to happen.” He steps up to the table, gently plucking the blindfold out of Peter’s hands and fastening it around his eyes with deft fingers. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, sweetheart.”

The last thing Peter sees before the blindfold completely obstructs his vision is Mr. Beck’s kind, blue eyes, soft as he calls him _sweetheart_. It makes his heart skip a beat again, reminding him of his unfortunate crush on his director, on a man more than twenty years his senior. The man who, in a few minutes, is going to be touching Peter in places he’s never touched himself.

He shivers when Mr. Beck’s hands slide the robe off his shoulders, pushing the soft material away and leaving him exposed to the air. “Jeez,” he gasps, wrapping his arms around his chest in an attempt to keep himself warm and preserve his modesty. 

It doesn’t get a response. Mr. Beck tugs the rest of his robe out from under him, leaving him completely naked, sitting on cold wood. Peter feels a little bad for whoever owns this place— he’s got his bare ass on their nice dining room table. They probably eat here, for crying out loud. 

“You’ll warm up,” Mr. Beck says after a beat, his breath hot against the side of Peter’s face as he pushes him down against the wood, his big hand splayed out on his chest. He’s almost clinical as he adjusts Peter’s pose, positions Peter’s body for the camera, moving him like a doll, tugging him this way and that. 

As time passes, Peter feels less like an actor and more like a prop.

Mr. Beck’s hands encircle his waist as he pulls him down, sliding him towards the edge of the table, and the warmth of his palms against Peter’s cool skin is enough to have him squirming against the wood. It’s _mortifying_.

“Um, Mr. Beck,” he squeaks, his hands reflexively slipping down his abdomen to cover his crotch, grazing Mr. Beck’s forearms. “What happens if I, um— if I actually get... hard?”

There’s a beat of silence, before Mr. Beck’s hands let go of his waist and grab his wrists instead, tugging them away from his crotch and pinning them by his head. The table creaks with the added weight of Mr. Beck’s body, his knees nudging Peter’s thighs apart, splaying them open and leaving him feeling a new kind of vulnerability. “I knew as soon as I met you that you’d be perfect for this,” he breathes, close to Peter’s ear. “You can do what you want, method act, or whatever. I’m sure the audience will love it, no matter what. Just make it _real_.”

Peter doesn’t know if the blindfold made Mr. Beck bolder, or if seeing him naked did something to change their boundaries, but something between them feels different. It could even be flattering, if it weren’t so terrifying. He feels like he’s treading uncharted waters.

Without his vision, his other senses feel like they’re dialed to eleven. He can feel Mr. Beck’s warm breath against his skin and smell the undoubtedly expensive cologne wafting off of him in musky waves. It’s overwhelming in the strangest way, and with the added bonus of the encouraging words, his brain temporarily short-circuits, dissolving into TV static. Part of him is well aware that this isn’t very _professional_ , and definitely counts as weird old pervert behavior on Mr. Beck’s end. The thing is, though— he doesn’t have it in him to push back. Mr. Beck is as brutal as he said he’d be, and even more so when he’s angry. It’s better for him to just keep his mouth shut and suffer through it.

“I want the movie to be good. I want to be good— I want them to like me,” he confesses in a shaky exhale, shifting underneath Mr. Beck’s body, feeling a flush spread across his face and down his chest. “I just— I don’t know if I want them to see me like that. Like this.”

“They’ll see exactly what I want them to see, sweetheart,” Mr. Beck whispers, scratching his beard along the sensitive skin of Peter’s neck. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might be sinking into the wood of the table. “Just let your body focus on how you’re feeling. Pretend they’re not even there. It’ll be over in the blink of an eye.”

Mr. Beck probably makes some sort of gesture, because Peter hears the crew shuffle in, hears the hushed exchanges between them, maybe even a low, appreciative whistle. It takes all of his strength to not close his thighs and make a feeble attempt to maintain a hint of modesty. It’s even more embarrassing than before— _humiliating_ , even— but the urge to run away gets crushed by his desire to obey Mr. Beck, to be good for the camera.

It doesn’t stop his heart from racing, though. Doesn’t keep the dizzying fear at bay, doesn’t stop him from feeling woozy. 

As if he could read Peter’s mind, Mr. Beck’s hands are on his body again, running across the span of his thighs, tracing the bones of his ribcage. Grounding him in the moment. “You’re so soft,” he murmurs, in a quiet tone meant just for the two of them. “Everything’s so smooth. Like a doll.”

It sounds like a compliment, and Peter’s about to give him an awkward _thank you_ when he hears the distinct _snick_ of a cap being popped open. The wet sound of what he assumes— hopes— is lubricant fills his ears, and despite the blindfold, he can clearly imagine Mr. Beck’s long fingers, wet and glistening in the light of the dining room. Peter tenses in anticipation, but Mr. Beck uses a hand to move his knees, spreading his legs a little more. 

“Good boy,” Mr. Beck murmurs, and without warning, his fingers press up against his rim, startlingly cold. He slips one inside, barely to the first knuckle, and Peter almost gasps.

He’s never _really_ fingered himself— and never put anything more than that _inside_ , regardless of how badly he’s wanted to— so when Mr. Beck slides in deeper, he involuntarily arches his back, trying to adjust, or maybe just to get it out of him. Someone calls out _action_ , but his heartbeat is so loud that it’s hard for him to be sure. The only thing he can focus on is the way Mr. Beck’s finger becomes _two_ fingers, although he’s not nearly as stretched as he’d like to be. Actually, it doesn’t even feel like Mr. Beck is trying to open him up— thrusting inside him with impatient fingers, filling the kitchen with soft, wet sounds that seem deafening in the silence. _Acting_ , he reminds himself. Still, when Mr. Beck pushes in deeper, Peter tenses.

“Oh _god_ ,” he breathes out, his voice shaky.

He’d been so caught up in the moment that he forgot to ask if it was okay for him to speak outside of the script, but when he tries to form the question, a slick hand wraps around the base of his dick, giving one single upward stroke, and his head turns to fuzz again. Everything goes slow and soft around the edges, like his head is full of cotton. It might be because he’s a virgin, or maybe because it’s been a while, but the jolt of contact has him gasping again.

The blindfold might stop him from seeing Mr. Beck’s face and the rest of the crew, but it makes everything feel that much more intense as he’s stretched open by slick fingers. His skin thrums with every touch, every little sting sending chills down his spine. It’s overwhelming.

There’s some shuffling off to his right, where he assumes the camera and crew are, and he can’t help but turn his head in their direction, even though he can’t see anything. A hand grabs his chin, turning his head away from the crew, the grip tight and bruising. “Pay attention to me,” Mr. Beck hisses, emphasizing the command with a sharp thrust of his fingers, a twist of his wrist.

“I am, I am,” Peter babbles, straining due to the hand still holding his jaw. He mindlessly bends one leg up and onto the table, not as concerned about modesty as he was a few minutes ago. The new position makes it easier for him to meet the thrust of Mr. Beck’s fingers with his hips, gives him leverage to help sink the fingers deeper inside him, to fuck up into his fist. “ _Ah_!” He moans, fingers scrabbling against the wooden table. He gets why some people like to put a finger inside themselves while they jerk-off. He’s not a fan of painful things, but the stretch of a second finger feels surprisingly good. 

It feels even better when Mr. Beck crooks his fingers, pressing insistently against his insides until he grazes something that has Peter arching up off the table with a choked-off gasp. 

“Did you like that?” Mr. Beck asks, loud enough for it to pick up on the recording, even though there’s no real talking in the short scene. “Tell me.”

Peter shakes his head against the grip on his jaw, because he doesn’t want to say it, not on camera, but then Mr. Beck’s fingers bend inside him again and he’s moaning, loud and embarrassing and completely involuntarily. He doesn’t know if that’s going to ruin the scene or anything, but he doesn’t care, too lost in the rolling heat in his gut, fingernails digging deep into the table. If he lets go, he might genuinely leave his body, lose himself completely in the humiliatingly good sensation of being filled by those deft fingers.

“That’s good, Peter,” Mr. Beck says appreciatively as he slumps back against the hard table, body going limp. The hand clutching his face lets go as the fingers slip out from inside him, and he grimaces at the embarrassing, wet sound it makes, the strange feeling of being empty. He waits for Mr. Beck to say cut, for some signal that they’re finished with the scene, so he can get away from everyone and put some clothes on, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a shuffle between his legs— the sound of a belt being unbuckled, of lubricant being squirted out of a bottle. He’s seen enough porn on the internet to know that those sounds usually precede a fuck— a real, dick-inside-of-you fuck.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?” Mr. Beck suggests, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.

_Introduce himself_? “What’s going on?” Peter asks instead, trying to keep his voice from wavering and failing miserably. He’s still feeling boneless, still too weak to lean up off the table. He moves to take off his blindfold, but two strong hands pin his own down.

“Keep your hands by your side for me, Peter,” Mr. Beck murmurs from his left. “Or else we might have to tie them up— not that I wouldn’t like to.”

_We_?

The question is on the tip of his tongue, but turns into a choked off cry when something hot and hard pushes into him, without warning and much larger than fingers. “What— get off of me!" Peter raises a hand to snatch off his blindfold in a panic, but gets his hands slammed back onto the table. There’s a weight on top of him all of a sudden, decidedly not Mr. Beck’s body, and he struggles uselessly against the restraints on his arms.

“Peter Parker, ladies and gentlemen— a sixteen-year-old student from Queens,” Mr. Beck says, and Peter’s blood turns to ice in his veins. This obviously isn’t for the movie. If there even was a movie in the first place.

The man keeps sliding further inside, ten times more painful than Mr. Beck’s fingers, wider and longer. It feels like Peter’s being torn apart, an unbearable stretch— it knocks the air out of his lungs. “Get off of me, _please_ ,” he gasps. “Please, I’m sorry— I need to stop!” Peter writhes again, trying to get the man off, get him out from inside him. Get away from the camera, which is probably still on, and recording the entire thing. The camera that was probably meant to record this all along.

With a surprising surge of strength, he manages to pull one of his hands free, blindly swinging his palm and colliding with the man’s face with a satisfying slap. The growl that follows, on the other hand, is anything but satisfying— bone-chillingly animalistic, in fact. “You little _fucker_ ,” the man hisses, thrusting his hips hard enough that Peter sobs, hand dropping back down to the table.

“I thought you’d be well-behaved enough that we would avoid this,” Mr. Beck sighs, further away than before, but just as intimidating. “But you’re not giving me much of a choice, sweetheart. Tie him up.”

More hands grab at his wrists, slipping a rough rope around them and tying it tight— tight enough that if he keeps moving, keeps struggling, he’ll definitely get some serious burns. But that’s not really his biggest concern at the moment, so he bites his lip and pulls. Peter strains his wrists against the ropes with all the strength he can muster, but they don’t budge— without a doubt, they’re wrapped around the stupidly sturdy legs of the table. Maybe if he could just get the knots undone, then he—

“So fucking tight,” the man on top of him groans, his deep voice echoing in Peter’s ear, making him freeze in mortification. He gives another hard thrust, sinking inside impossibly deep, and whatever idea Peter had about the rope goes out the window. 

The man pulls out completely, thrusting clumsily and smearing precum and lube along his hole. Peter drops his head back against the table, shuddering at the hot and cold feeling between his legs. He was right about the blindfold increasing sensitivity— his insides feel like they’re tearing in two, completely reshaping to fit this man’s dick.

With all of this brutality, he shouldn’t feel good— he should be embarrassed, be _humiliated_ that his first time is so horrible, that he’s being recorded on camera. And yet, he’s still sensitive from whatever it was Mr. Beck did to him— the pain edges just on the side of pleasure. Then the man brushes against that spot inside him, making his head spin and his body jolt. “Please,” he gasps again, “oh god.”

“Such a messy little thing,” Mr. Beck coos, close again, before that familiar hand runs along the edge of his lips, smearing drool along his chin. He hadn’t even realized his mouth was hanging open, but for sure, that’s drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth. “Do you want it to stop?”

“Yes,” Peter cries, “yes, I want it to stop, I don’t want this anymore— I’m _sorry_!”

For a moment, he actually thinks his begging worked— Mr. Beck is going to call it off and the man will stop rubbing the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside him that renders him completely useless. They’re going to let him go. 

Instead, on a particularly hard shove, strong hands pull him closer to the edge of the table, tipping his head over. “Go ahead,” Mr. Beck calls, sounding farther away again. “Let him have it.”

“You know,” the man growls against Peter’s neck, “you’re pretty fucking tight— thought you were just another one of his _sluts_.” He punctuates the statement with a sharp cant of his hips, effectively halting any retort Peter could say in its tracks. His head tips further over the edge of the table, lips parted in a choked-off shout.

The shout dies into a gasp when he feels a new set of hands wrap around his throat. Peter manages to gulp in some air, before another man’s cock forces its way into his mouth. 

He’s never given head before, but that’s probably what the audience wants, a compilation of Peter losing all his firsts. Precum blurts into his mouth, hot inside his throat, and he gags, trying to turn his head away but held in place by the hands around his throat. The taste of dick isn’t as appealing as he thought it’d be— too salty, almost tangy, like sweat.

A sick part of him hopes that this is Mr. Beck, on the off-chance that he might be just a tiny bit gentler, his grip a little more forgiving.

Both men set an erratic pace, rocking him back and forth across the wooden surface of the table, the skin on his back rubbing raw from the persistent friction. Peter yelps when a notably hard thrust has his back burning, but it’s mostly garbled nonsense.

“Look at you, just _gagging_ for it,” Mr. Beck says from what sounds like the other end of the room.

Peter’s not gagging because he wants to, obviously. He can’t breathe, the unrelenting stretch in his mouth sealing his throat, making him wheeze whenever the man’s hips draw back. As his mouth gets slicker, a mess of drool and precum slides up his hot skin, wetting the hair by his temples. There may also be tears in that mix, but he’s not sure. 

The blindfold slips off his head completely with all of the movement— with all of the _fucking_ — but he doesn’t open his eyes. He keeps them closed, because he knows that if he were to open them he’d only end up crying, even more afraid than he was with it on. He doesn’t want to see his assailants. Most importantly, he doesn’t want to see Mr. Beck’s wide-eyed gaze or the blinking of the camera.

Everything hurts so much— he feels like he’s going to just give out, like maybe he just _did_. From suffocation, from being torn apart, from anything. 

And somehow, in the midst of all this, a part of him feels mind-numbingly good, too. Even though he’s humiliated, he can feel his cock dripping precum against his belly, apparently interested in the way he’s being violated on camera for strangers, by strangers. He tries to force out another protest, but all he can manage is a sharp exhale through his nose.

There’s a sudden, hot rush of cum filling his insides and Peter freezes up against the table, paralyzed. He cringes again when the man pulls out, eyes rolling back into his head— both repulsed and pleased by the sensation of cum sliding out of him, hot and slick. He moans around the dick in his mouth, trying to reach his hand down and feel the wetness seeping onto the table, trying to plug it up before the camera sees, but just straining against the rope.

“Fuck yes, that’s it,” the man above him groans, hips stuttering. Peter swallows around the mouthful, even though the hands on his neck have let go— forcing down the man’s cum with his best efforts, though some manages to drip out of his mouth and down his face. His tongue instinctively laps against his lips and chin, trying to clean up the mess he’s inevitably made. Peter mentally kicks himself for being so messy, a part of him nonsensically worried that he might look bad on camera. That he might make Mr. Beck _mad_.

He blinks open his eyes, slowly adjusting to the dining room light, trying to look around, as if he could somehow identify which man just took his virginity in front of all these people. Peter leans his head up off the table, blearily glancing around the dining room.

It’s strange how, in a different situation, the spacious layout of the room goes from luxurious to intimidating. The lights are blinding, the sounds reverberating almost accusingly off of the walls, which won’t be good for whoever has to edit the sound and stuff. A man Peter doesn’t recognize leans over him, not even making eye contact, just looking _through_ him— before sinking his cock into his mouth with a long, drawn-out moan. 

This one is larger, maybe. Definitely longer. While the previous man had made him gag, this one’s making him choke. Peter sobs around the length of him, especially when the man starts to fuck into him, his hips flush against his mouth. Peter’s hands tug uselessly against the ropes, still trying to get free, even though he feels weaker as time passes.

He doesn’t see Mr. Beck, but then again, he can’t tilt his head much. All he can do is try and hold his breath as the man at the edge of the table mercilessly fucks his throat, growling and panting above his prone body. Belatedly he wonders how exactly he ended up here— how he went from meeting Mr. Beck in a cute little coffee shop to being spread out on a table, being used as a toy in front of a camera.

He hears his voice, then, over the slick, wet sounds of sex. He’d be able to identify it anywhere, a unique pitch meant for his ears, like a dog whistle. “Get in there,” Mr. Beck commands, and Peter turns his head in the direction of his voice, only to have his vision obscured by two more men, their hard cocks bobbing against their stomachs, eager.

Peter sobs because he can’t help it, because he can barely breathe, because it’s too much and he can’t hear himself think. There’s a set of cocks rutting against his tear-stained cheeks, and Peter wishes that he’d faint, so all of the humiliation would stop. He cries around the man already in his mouth, trying to get his mouth to close, but one of the others uses his fingers to pry open his jaw and keep it stretched painfully wide.

Good— at this rate, he’s going to pass out. He can already feel himself getting lightheaded, like he’s slipping out of reality, and this is all just some nightmare scenario his subconscious conjured up for him. He barely even registers when the man cums down his throat, not even gagging as he swallows. It’s too much effort to put up a fight, when he’s outnumbered, especially since he feels like he’s moving through molasses.

While the two men continue to jerk-off along the skin of his cheeks, someone else nudges his thighs open. It’s terrifying, just the sheer thought of being fucked again by someone he doesn’t even know. Still, Peter doesn’t even flinch, too out of it to care. At least he’s already fucked open. Maybe if he just lies there, letting them come on him and in him without flinching, they’ll get bored and turn off the cameras. 

It’s a valid plan until Mr. Beck leans over him, carefully brushing his sweaty curls off of his forehead, unexpectedly comforting. Grounding, even though he wants so badly to let go. “You looked so pretty, princess, fucking yourself on my fingers. So good for me.” Mr. Beck caresses his cheek, wiping away tears and cum with the pad of his thumb. “If you keep being good, I’ll give you what you want.”

Peter sobs, straining against the ropes to lean into Mr. Beck’s gentle touch. “You’ll— you’ll let me go?”

“If that’s what you want, then you’ve got it. Just keep sitting pretty for me, okay?”

Peter preens. Mr. Beck thought he looked good— thought he looked pretty, even. The praise makes him smile, albeit somewhat sloppily, too spaced out to give him a proper grin. He blinks, fluttering his lashes despite the way they keep clumping together from the cum on his face. It would be so easy for him to just… close his eyes, drift off a bit while they have their fun.

“Hey, hey,” Mr. Beck snaps, tugging on his hair and bringing him back into the harsh reality of the present. Even with the sting, his commanding tone of voice would’ve been enough to get Peter to listen. “Stay here with me. It’s no fun if you’re gone.”

Peter doesn’t know what he’s talking about— it’s not like he can just get up and go on his own. He can barely lift his head off the table. “What?” he manages to slur, blinking blankly. Mr. Beck waves a hand, and Peter can hear footsteps coming closer. “What are you doing?”

“You’re just so pretty, sweetheart— everyone wants a turn,” Mr. Beck murmurs. “Can you blame them?”

Peter flushes at the compliment, but still shakes his head, albeit weakly. “Please, I can’t— can’t do it anymore, Mr. Beck, _please_ —”

Mr. Beck raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes giving Peter a hard stare. “You can, and you will,” he commands, and Peter shuts his mouth, tears welling up in his eyes. He wants to make Mr. Beck happy, wants to please him more than anything, but he doesn’t think he can live through another brutal fucking.

Someone hoists up Peter’s hips, their blunt nails sinking into his skin before they thrust in, hard enough to rock the table. “Please,” he gasps as they push his legs up toward his chest. “Go slow.”

His pleas fall on deaf ears, because, if anything, they go faster, fucking little sounds out of him with every sharp, staccato thrust. Peter can’t think straight anymore, crying in earnest as he’s pushed around and used. Even his own hiccups and whines sound distant, like he’s no longer inside his own body. It seems like this man comes sooner than the ones before, but Peter can’t tell if it’s been a minute or an hour, just knows that there’s more warm cum filling his insides.

“I’ll give you a break, _Pete_ ,” the man teases as he pulls out with a quick slide of his hips. 

A fresh stream of cum trickles out from his abused hole, and even though he feels emptier, he nods frantically. “Thank you, thank you so much—”

Mr. Beck leans over him suddenly, wiping at his cheeks again, his touch almost painfully gentle after all of the brutality. He gives Peter a sickly-sweet smile, blue eyes fond. “You’re such a good little whore,” he murmurs appreciatively, thumbing at Peter’s wet lips.

“I’m not— not a whore,” Peter replies almost instantly, albeit weakly. It’s hard to argue against him when he's like this, though. Naked. Filthy.

“Yes, you are. I knew it from the first time I saw your little audition tape.” He winks. “Us directors know our talents better than they know themselves.”

Maybe he’s right. It upsets him to be called that, but part of him feels like it’s justified. After all the things he’s done today, maybe he is a whore. At least, if Mr. Beck says he is, then it must be true.

He’s a whore. He asked for this. How _humiliating_.

Mr. Beck says something else, but Peter can’t make it out over the ringing in his ears. Something’s happening between his thighs, some sort of scuffle between two men that he hasn’t seen yet. Why anyone would be arguing about fucking him is beyond him— especially with his hole already stretched and leaking cum from two other people.

“He can take you both,” Mr. Beck says suddenly, his commanding voice halting Peter’s aimless thoughts. “He’s loose enough by now.”

Peter barely has any time to process what he could possibly mean when _two_ cocks slide into him alongside one another, spreading him wider than he even thought was possible. He tries to scream, tries to get the two men to stop before they really break him in half, but his mouth can’t form the syllables, the sounds dying inside his throat.

It gets harder for Peter to process the events around him once the two men fucking him set a punishing, awkward rhythm, pounding into him despite the way he tries to push away. Someone’s hands are running through his hair, tender in opposition to the pain that ransacks the rest of his body. _Mr. Beck_ , he thinks dazedly.

“Get a shot of his stomach,” Mr. Beck says. His hands leave Peter’s hair, almost making him whine at the loss of touch. He tries to lean up and get closer, but Mr. Beck’s hands are busy untying one of his wrists. “Feel it.” He takes Peter’s hand and brings it down to his stomach.

Sure enough, there’s a slight rise where the men fuck into him, the movement of their dicks palpable. He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, latching onto Mr. Beck’s wrist instead, gripping him like a lifeline. 

It feels like everyone’s eyes are on him, which probably isn’t far from the truth. His cock gives a weak twitch against his belly, utterly neglected in all the chaos. It’s an absolute sensory overload, overwhelming pleasure bordering on pain— or maybe the opposite. Maybe Peter’s just starting to lose his grip on his sanity. Wires crossed.

Peter just needs to wait for the two men to empty themselves inside of him, and then Mr. Beck will see how good he is and he’ll let him go. It seems like the two have other plans, though, pulling out from him with a loud squelch. They clumsily untie the ropes around Peter’s wrist and ankles, before lifting him off of the table. He catches Mr. Beck’s eye over one man’s shoulder, watches him give a wink. 

Peter’s about to plead, reach for him again, when his head drops against one man’s chest, an embarrassing wail bubbling up from his throat. He struggles against the arms holding him, sandwiched between hot skin— gravity forcing him to bottom out on both of their dicks. It doesn’t even feel good, just feels like a dull, painful pressure building up against his insides that increases as the men hoist him up and down.

He must blackout for a moment or two, because the next thing he knows, he’s dumped from their grip, bent over the table, legs spread as he drips fresh cum onto the floor. “Please,” he repeats again, not knowing what he’s begging for anymore, or who.

Mr. Beck is back by his side in an instant. “That’s it, honey. What do you want?” 

Peter purrs at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t have the energy to look up at him, absolutely spent, but just hearing his voice is soothing. Mr. Beck runs his big, warm hand down Peter’s arched spine, between his shoulder blades. He knows he should ask to be let go, to be set loose from this nightmare— but instead, he spreads his legs a little wider, his cock dripping from neglect.

Mr. Beck chuckles, moving to press his hips against Peter’s ass, cock hard and hot even through multiple layers of fabric. “All you had to do was ask.”

Peter squirms when he hears the sound of Mr. Beck unzipping his slacks. “Are you— are you recording this too?”

The head of Mr. Beck’s dick runs along the cleft of his ass, smearing cum along his rim. If he put just a little pressure, he could easily sink inside. It’s embarrassing, but maybe that’s what Mr. Beck likes. Likes them slick and fucked open so he doesn’t have to go through the trouble of doing it himself. Peter wants to be what he likes. “Do you not want me to?”

He shakes his head, not sure why he’s not saying _yes_ like he should. “I wanna be a star,” he confesses, breath humid against the table. 

Mr. Beck makes a strangled noise that sounds almost like a growl, before pushing into Peter and bottoming out with one swift movement of his hips. The subsequent squelch is downright filthy— completely gross and embarrassing, but Peter still rocks back into him, meeting his thrusts as best he can. Despite having been fucked multiple times already, he hasn’t come once. Strangely enough, he thinks he could, as long as it’s nice, smart Mr. Beck that’s doing the fucking.

Mr. Beck must notice that he’s achingly hard, because he wraps a hand around his dick and gives it a pump. Peter kicks his legs out, gasping, his sensitive nerves sparking hot and sharp with the pain. He must struggle too much, because Mr. Beck grabs the back of his neck, squeezing hard and pressing his face into the table. It keeps him still, keeps him from fucking into his loose fist— but increases the rising tide of pleasure in his gut. There’s something satisfying about being manhandled like this, like he’s meant to be here, stuck between the hard edge of the table and Mr. Beck’s body.

“Gonna fill you up good, Peter,” Mr. Beck moans, his fingers tightening on the nape of Peter’s neck. “Then I’m gonna have them fuck you _senseless_.”

“Yes,” he gasps, hips twitching. “Please, I want it, oh my god.” Even though his body aches with every thrust, every brush against his prostate making him grit his teeth, he still rolls his hips, trying to get Mr. Beck’s dick to sink in deeper. “Give it to me,” he begs, and finally, Mr. Beck comes, filling him up perfectly, hands tightening around his neck and his dick.

It’s all he needed— all he needed to get him over the edge on his own. There’s a moment before he comes when he actually thinks he’s dying, a bright burst of light behind his fluttering eyelids, body burning white-hot. His hands scrabble against the table, a humiliating whimpering sound coming out of his throat that he couldn’t stop himself from making even if he tried.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Mr. Beck asks, pulling out of him with another wet sound.

“Mhm,” Peter sighs into the table, rubbing his face against the glossy wood. He can’t say much else, reduced to a useless heap of limbs. 

“That’s good,” Mr. Beck says, one hand running over his hip before he straightens up. “Because you’re not quite finished yet.”

Peter’s eyes open slowly, his eyelashes fluttering in confusion. “What?” he croaks, the word dripping with disbelief. “You want— you want me to keep going?”

Mr. Beck gives Peter another stern look, but it’s somewhat bemused. “You’ve got a long way to go before you become my star,” he says. He tilts his head. “You’re a people-pleaser, aren’t you?”

Peter tries to ignore the pain in his chest, the tears threatening to spill down his already wet face. He thought he’d been good enough, thought he’d made Mr. Beck happy. Done okay, at least.

Mr. Beck seems to notice his tears, smiling down at him sweetly. “You _do_ want to be a star, don’t you, Peter?”

“Yes,” Peter gasps, a tear running down one cheek. He wants to be a star, almost as much as he wants to feel those warm hands caress his face again. Almost as much as he wants to make Mr. Beck proud. But based on everything that’s happened, he thinks it’ll take a lot more to satisfy him.

He takes one last look at Mr. Beck’s handsome, expectant face— one last look at the blinking light of the camera— and lets his thighs fall open again.

**Author's Note:**

> no one:  
> me: i gotta make a quentin beck quentin tarantino joke or i’ll die
> 
> also there's a bit where it seems like i accidentally gave quentin three hands but i did not. i know what i am doing.
> 
> anyway this wasn’t my typical fare so let me know if it’s bad or good or okay or downright embarrassing please.... but regardless, i got lots more noncons and cons where that came from..... speak to me
> 
> also on [twitter](http://twitter.com/piagnucolares) if you’ve got any requests


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